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It’s the colours, that’s what she remembers the most.
Sunlight streaming golden on her face, clouds lazing in the blue sky, the lush green of the forest behind them.
It’s different from where she is now, in this little outhouse that the Queen was generous enough to provide her, safe and quiet away from all the politics and the memories, with the chatter of the orphans in the background.
Here everything just feels grey. Grey like nothing matters anymore, grey like nothing feels special anymore. It’s in the way Historia talks to her, walking on eggshells, trying to make sure she eats but not wanting to force her because she’s scared Mikasa will break.
She’ll shovel down the bread and the soup but it tastes like nothing, murmur a thank you because that’s what’s expected of her. It’s only when the sun goes down, when the exhaustion of not having to feel anything overcomes her that she can breathe easily again.
Here, behind closed eyes, under the cover of darkness, she finds colour again.
Green of his bright eyes, rich, dark brown of his hair as she’d tug her hands through it, pale, cracked pink of his lips when she’d place touch them to hers.
Here she can feel again, his breath hot on her neck, his smile precious on her skin, his words haunting her.
“… You look pretty like that, Mikasa,” his smug satisfaction evident in his voice. “When I’m making you feel good.”
She’d feel her body warm under his touch, molten from his kiss, hungry for his love.
And Eren gave it to her. Slowly, sometimes, taking his time, reminding her that it was just them, that no one could take this away from them, that nothing could ruin this moment. Other times he was hurried like there would never be enough, never enough time, never too many kisses and never enough love that he could give her.
He tasted of it sometimes; sorrow, regret, pain. But he never let her feel it there - in their happy little place, their solace.
So she’d smiled for him, blushed under his attentive gaze, her heart swollen with the ability to finally love freely the boy she’d loved her whole life.
It was the most real thing she’d ever felt; his body flush against hers as he possessed her under the moonlight, kissed her everywhere she’d never dreamt of being kissed and whispered in her ear, “… I’ll never let anyone take you from me.”
All these days later, she thinks maybe she should have paid a bit more attention. Maybe if she’d actually listened, she would have heard it; heard the wishfulness in his voice.
Tears run familiar tracks down her cheeks, the sobs wrenched from her heart. She looks down at her hands and she sees them run with blood, like the day after she’d taken his life, the memory of it immortal. She’d scrubbed and scrubbed and run them raw until they were almost as red as his blood, but nothing takes away the stench of your lover’s blood after you’ve killed them.
“… I’ll never let anyone take you from me.”
It haunts her, plays tricks in her mind, fills her with rage and guilt and pain that feels larger than life.
… He didn’t keep his promise, did he?